Chapter 3 Rhea
“Judd should not be allowed access to liquor. What the hell is this?” I choke down the drink, and it hits my stomach like firestarter. Sunday returns with a wicked smile on her face and slides into the booth next to me.
“Bobo is setting it up,” she squeals and slams back one of the weird-colored drinks.
“Oh god!” She spits booze everywhere, causing Kaia to scream in laughter and Cosy to throw napkins at her.
“Judd made these,” she says before anyone can explain.
“The sympathy hire has gone too far.” Sunday frowns, completely disgusted.
We all look over to watch Judd juggle three drinks while he flirts with a cluster of girls around him.
The Hollow shirt is a size too small, and his sandy blond hair is darker at the roots, messy, and licks at his neck.
He winks one of his glassy blue eyes and carries on through the crowd with a subtle flex to his massive arms and a lazy smirk on his lips.
“It’s a shame he’s so pretty to look at.” Kaia slumps against the table, poking the terrible drinks. Cosy scoffs and pats her on the head. “This is all yours, baby girl,” she says, pushing the glass across the table to me.
“Don’t make me?” I scrunch my brows and give her the biggest, watery eyes I can manage.
“This is your pity party, remember? He was trying to cheer you up with his house special,” Kaia reminds me.
“I hate you,” I say to her, grabbing it and slamming it back with a loud gag that makes Margie giggle wildly. My phone buzzes on the table, and an email about my condo comes through, only making me more depressed. I shove it away, and Cosy picks it up to read it.
“Shit,” she scowls and shows Kaia, who leans in with her eyes unfocused on the phone. “They’re giving you a six-month timeline for repairs.”
“Which means it’ll be closer to a year,” Kaia says.
After the game, she showered and left her long brown hair to air-dry, and now it’s wavy around her sharp features.
There’s a soft pink hue to her tawny skin from the booze, and she looks up at me with sympathy in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Reaper. I know you loved that condo. ”
“It’s chill,” I shrug. “It’s just a house…”
A house I bought with my own money after years of renting.
At nineteen, I’d moved out of my parents' house, in desperate need of space from the chaos that my family embodies. Don’t get me wrong, I love them.
They’re everything to me. My mom and stepdad are incredible—four younger siblings, Reid, Rue, Shana, and Toby.
And too many animals for one house, but it’s always loud, someone is always creating noise, and sometimes… I just need the quiet.
The condo is my first real home. Three years there, and it was finally starting to feel like mine…or at least it had. Don’t cry again, not here.
“Hey, sport,” Boone says, his hand squeezing my shoulder.
“I don’t know if anyone told you, but it’s actually illegal to be sad after I fight Bright to set up the karaoke machine, so if you could like…
” I tilt my head up to see him standing behind the booth, and he smiles at me, digging his tattooed fingers into his dimples, “turn that frown upside down?”
“You’re a dork,” I say, shaking my head.
“It worked, though,” he winks, turning his attention across the table, “now go scare some of these drunks out of the Hollow with your beautiful singing voice, Kaia.”
“You’re an asshole,” she purrs and flips him off, but slides from the booth and pulls a reluctant Cosy with her. Boone forces Sunday up and out, and I watch as they disappear through the crowd.
The speaker squeaks as Kaia gets her hands on a mic, and the entire crowd at the Hollow flinches until it rights itself.
She wastes no time finding her favorite Nelly Furtado song, no doubt just to piss Boone off, who’s watching from a spot behind the bar with a smile on his face.
It doesn’t matter what she does; it will never make him love her less.
“Here.” A tall glass slides across the table; vibrant pink and slushy.
I look up as my hand wraps around it and my mouth finds the straw.
Brighton leans against the booth with his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the stage in the corner of the bar with an annoyed expression that’s forced because the corner of his mouth curls up and his right foot twitches like he wants to tap along to the beat.
“I thought you didn’t bring out the blender on hockey nights,” I say quietly, enjoying the perfectly mixed drink.
There’s even a poorly drawn sign behind the main bar that says “No blended drinks when the Huskies are on.” A rule laid down after Sunday exploded watermelon daiquiris all over the bar one night; it smelled like rum in the cracks of the nearby booths for months after.
“It was already out,” he lies.
I take another sip, my eyes never leaving him.
Brighton is handsome, and even though they’re twins, it’s not in the same way Boone is.
All rugged and scruffy. Like a goofy, tattooed grizzly bear.
No, Brighton is a black bear. Sleek, sharp edges and quiet anger.
He still cuts his hair like he’s on active duty, but it’s a little longer on top now and lends to soft, loose curls he fights to keep back out of his stormy blue eyes.
He’s hardened muscle, old sun burns, and scars from years of service, softened around the edges from being home.
What little I do know about him all comes from Sunday or Boone.
Unlike his siblings, he’s reserved and barely speaks to anyone.
The Hollow is as busy as it is because of Boone’s friendly, border-collie energy and nothing else. He finally looks over his shoulder at me, and I quickly adjust my stare to Kaia, but out of the corner of my eye, I can still feel his gaze on my skin.
Looking down at the slushie margarita, I smile sadly and try to enjoy the sweet taste of it before I collect myself and join Sunday for a tipsy rendition of Hand in My Pocket by Alanis Morissette that has the front row of the crowd cheering for us.
For a second, I actually forget that my entire life has been disrupted, sinking into the energy that the girls were putting out.
I do my best to completely forget until I’m another three drinks down, belting slurred lines of a Queen song.
“You know, despite not having a house to go home to, today wasn’t so bad,” I say, leaning over the booth to take a glass of water from between Kaia and Cosy.
Sunday is a few tables over, flirting with a paramedics loudly just to rile up her brothers, but the crowd is finally starting to die down, leaving mostly the regulars and a few drunks.
I’m sweaty, tired, and too tipsy to drive home, but I’m not so sad anymore—and that’s what matters.
“We got a lurker,” Kaia says, her eyes trailing a booth over.
“Fuck, I hate that guy,” I groan, seeing who she’s talking about.
Derek Trysen, one of the meathead firefighters who frequents the bar, is circling Sunday.
Again. It’s a game he likes to play. He's well past thirty, with a greasy curly blonde mullet, beady dark eyes, and still thinks that pulling a girl's hair is flirting.
“I can’t hit another man in this bar for not doing anything. Thing One will flip.” Kaia sighs, looking over her shoulder to Brighton, who’s surprisingly also watching Derek circle like a shark.
“I could use the outlet,” I say, and Kaia’s eyes flicker to mine with excitement, “he feels bad for me, I can probably get away with it.”
I could take Brighton Black one-on-one.
Sober…
Maybe…
“I like sad Rhea, she’s a wild card.” She slaps the table a couple of times with her hands, and every ring across her ten fingers clangs loudly.
“Give me some of those.” I hold out my palm, flat.
“God, that’s hot,” she moans and starts to shuck them off so I can slip them on.
I keep my eye on Derek, who’s getting suspiciously close to Sunday, and like clockwork, his hand comes up her back and her head snaps to see who’s touching her.
She looks him over, the dirty look on her face dark enough to kill.
Both Kaia and Cosy snort at her expression.
“Oh, that’s going to start shit,” Margie leans over the booth to watch.
“Stay here,” I say, moving through the crowd. Luckily, I’m taller and can see over most of the heads bobbing around, keeping my gaze fixated on them. The guys they're sitting with are aiming to get restless, shifting in their seats as Derek puts his hand on Sunday again.
She shoves him back, and two of the guys at the table are up and out of their seats.
Sunday waves them off, but the distraction leaves a split second for Derek to get handsy, and his palm grips her ass hard enough for her to yelp and shove him again, but she’s so little against his large frame that he doesn’t even budge.
By the time I get to her, the paramedic dude-bro behind her is jostling her around to get to Derek, and Sunday is in the middle of a full-blown fight.
“Let go,” I snap at the paramedic who doesn’t listen at first until I reach out and yank on his hair hard.
“Ow! What the fuck?” he says before turning to see who did it. “Sorry, Drake, I didn’t…” he clams up and releases Derek’s shirt, giving Sunday room to slip out of the chaos and back against the booth.
“Yeah, you sure didn’t.” I smile. That’s the normal reaction, being a girl standing at over six feet and formed from years of rugby and training turns the heads of men, and not in the good kind of way.
I’m pretty used to them being more scared of me than turned on, and I don’t mind.
They can’t handle me anyway, and scaring them shitless is more fun than sex.
I turn around to face the idiot who grabbed Sunday and cock my head to the side, looking at him. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see both Boone and Judd approaching as Brighton watches on from the bar. I have a choice to make: let them handle it or do it myself.
Derek opens his mouth to defend himself, but I’m in the kind of mood to hit first and ask questions later. Handle it myself then. My hand comes up, and before Derek can even register the movement, my closed fist collides with his face, and the bar erupts in gasps and chatter.
Blood pours from his nose, and an explosion of pain ripples across my knuckles, but when he drops his hands, pride bubbles up in a sharp, wicked laugh at the sight of the ring imprints littering his skin.
“Okay, that fucking hurt,” I choke under my breath. Why is his face so hard…
Derek looks at the blood in his hand and back up to me with vicious intent.
He charges me, but I’m quicker and drop my stance in preparation for his attack, wrapping my arms around his middle and pushing him back into the crowd.
His back hits a table, and glass goes flying.
He tries again, his movements sloppy with unbridled rage and his feet slipping in the spilled drinks beneath him.
“Oh fuck off, you water buffalo! We were just having fun!” he grunts and tries to attack again.
“Let it go, Derek.” A hand wraps around the back of his neck as he makes to hit me, and Brighton hovers behind him, fingers digging into his skin. “It’s bad enough you’re a creep, don’t stick around to get your ass kicked in front of all these people.”
I expect him to make a girl joke, they all make them, but Brighton doesn’t; he just squeezes Derek tighter when he tries to fight the hold. He gives it one more go, but Brighton hauls him backwards, “Get. Out.”
Derek scrabbles away, his idiot friends on his tail, and Brighton looks at Sunday, “I’m good. Nothing he hasn’t tried before.” The muscle in his jaw ticks at her answer, but he looks to me, his eyes doing a quick scan.
“Good here too,” I say quickly to get him to stop, unprepared for the tingle of warmth his gaze gives me. “Fine, promise. Super chill!” I spit out between my laughter.
When Brighton finally turns away, he runs into Boone, who says a few things before starting to clear out the bar. I look down at my hand, flexing it sorely and slip off the rings one by one and shove them into my pocket before they get swollen on.
“Nice punch,” Cosy says, coming up beside me and tilting her head back. “His nose will be crooked even after a trip to the emergency room.
“I wish it would stop him from being a creep,” I say, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins. Fuck, I love punching men.
“Just means you get to punch him again in the future.” She winks at me and backs away to find the other girls.
“You’re not wrong,” I call out with a tipsy smile on my face.